


that fawn of a boy

by saernamaz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Laurent is a bacha, Lazar is a poet, M/M, Purple Prose, and sex also, he's nineteen though if that wasn't explicit enough and Lazar is 22 so, i've been studying medieval poetry again and so..., very literally that's all there is, which is a dancing boy in Persian tradition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saernamaz/pseuds/saernamaz
Summary: i’d sell my soul for that fawnof a boy, night walkerto sound of the ‘ud & flute playingwho saw the glass in my hand, said“drink the wine from between my lips”& the moon was a yod drawn onthe cover of dawn—in gold ink— samuel hanagid (993 - 1056)///He rested a hand on his slender waist, feeling the warm of life beneath his fingertips and the smooth fabric of his nightclothes.“Shall I sin against the Lord?”“Let your sin, sweet boy, be with me.”
Relationships: Laurent/Lazar (Captive Prince)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. to sound of the ‘ud & flute playing

**Author's Note:**

> find out more about dancing boys in the islamic (modern) world here: http://eshkolhakofer.blogspot.com/2013/08/dancing-before-altar-henna-and-jewish.html

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know what i'm doing anymore ??? anyway i love lazar/laurent so i indulged myself.

As an eminent poet, whose name was even known in the far East, a rich family of Shiraz had invited him to dinner one evening, promising alcohol, sweets and spices, music and conversations. Social and volatile, Lazar had gracefully accepted, with his usual panache and excitement. Persian feasts were spectacular, or so he had heard, with performing dancers, lovely pages as eye-candy and alcohol and drugs flowing like water.

The house was sumptuous, a marvel of architecture, tall marble columns, ornamented with colorful tiles placed in intricate geometric patterns that ressemble the cosmos,crowned with an illuminated dome styled with _muqarnas_. Servants immediately flocked him as he entered the home, applying henna to his hands, taking his jacket and leading him to a private salon, where the smoke of the qalyans permitted the room, growing it a smelly smoke. The noble, when he saw him, stood up to greet him, swaying under the sweet embrace of alcohol.

“Sir,” he slurred with a chanting accent, “Be welcomed in my house. Please help yourself, sit on a cushion, _they_ will be there soon.”

The fat master of the house nudged him toward a circle of cushions, where a few men were already sitting, talking animatedly among themselves and drink wine from their cups. Lazar took one from a passing page, a wonderful little creature, and sat down. He swallowed his drink in one sip, letting the dizziness of the alcohol lull him into easy comfort.

And then they came, angelic Huns, conquerors of hearts, beauties draped in feminine clothing, wearing their hair long and curled, arms swaying in the air, feet striking the carpets beneath them in a fast beat. The dancers were unmistakably young boys and men, from eleven to nineteen, graceful and exquisite. The Persians seemed to lose themselves in the scene, absorbing the fluttering images of silks turning and twisting, bending and jumping. A figure stood up from the troupe of performers, older and radiating more beauty than the rest, a golden Adonis, a lover, soft and tender. He was the lead dancer, setting the rhythm, deciding of the next movements from the front, never breaking eye contact with his audience. Lazar’s eyes found his turquoise ones, and he felt his heart clench.

The boy stared, meticulously watching him, penetrating his soul with his marvelous gaze, and slowly, deliberately, he moved toward him. He took a glass of wine from a passing-by servant, andtook the edge of the circular foot on which it stood firmly between his teeth, balancing the glass between his plump rosy lips. Standing in front of Lazar, he leaned slowly down, as to fill his own glass, brought up in his hand, continually bending his body more and more forwards as the level of liquid sunk lower. The guests appeared particularly delighted with this manoeuvre, even directed at another, and cheered, while Lazar sat still, watching a prince bow for him. His long fingers carefully took the glass out of his mouth to rest it on the ground, and he gave Lazar one last wink with a kohled eye, before resuming his dance.


	2. “drink the wine from between my lips”

The evening was coming to an end, the guests growing bold in their affections for each other, while servants cleaned the room. Lazar took it as his cue to go back to his bedroom. He would thank the master of the house in the morning, around honeyed treats and tea.

As he walked through the hallways, his mind drove him to the slim figure of the dancer, bright and skillful, of him bending down for Lazar, of him quivering and shaking in a voluptuous dance to the rhythm of the music, of him mingling in the crowd of guests and embracing and kissing his dancing partners, of him placing sweetmeats between his lips and eating it sensually, under the moon drawn with golden ink in the pale night. He had sought Lazar once or twice, discussing poetry, a honeyed voice, warm and tender, escaping from his scarlet lips, the color of the blood of the aching hearts he must leave behind him. He was half quartz, half ruby, as a rose buckled from a garden and held before the statues of Aphrodite, or the face of a blushing lover. He wished so achingly to satisfy him with his flesh on the night of the holy day of the sun, to give him a voice in joy in a song of love, to make him drunk from opaque honey, to feel him, him whose perfume was like pure myrrh.

“ _Bonsoir_.”

Lazar would remember this word as a salvation, a prayer and a divine answering at the same time. He turned to see the young man, dressed in a simple robe, transparent in the candlelight, resting on his flesh, drawing him softly, that fawn of a boy — nightwalker. Lips red from wine, glowing from honey. He moved on instinct, drawing near the still boy, who stood languidly against a column of marble, a yod of the golden moon. He rested a hand on his slender waist, feeling the warm of life beneath his fingertips and the smooth fabric of his nightclothes.

“Do you speak French?”

“I do, good sir.”

“What is your name, _habib_?”

The boy chuckled. “You can call me Laurent.”

“I would prefer to call you lover, taste the honey on your tongue, drink the wine from between your lips.”

“Shall I sin against the Lord?”

“Let your sin, sweet boy, be with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> habib means "baby", "sweetheart" in arabic, in masculine form. habib was a common appellation for a lover in persian medieval poetry (which was hella gay)


	3. disheveled hair, perspiring, with laughing lips and drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sex scene that REALLY appeals to your imagination ahead
> 
> hope you enjoyed it ;)

They sinned that evening, in the boy’s bedchambers, on the perfumed silks of the linen, candles forming a golden halo around them on the cover of dawn.

They kissed, passionately, impatiently, like Israel wrestled God on Peniel, ardent and proud, erotic and tender. Laurent gladdened his heart, by kissing him after serving him, who was heavy-headed with love’s slumber and intoxicated with wine. To have such unlimited beauty beneath him made Lazar dizzy under the weight of love and infatuation. Silver-bodied, golden-haired, narrow-waisted, Laurent was panting softly as he kissed the pale column of his neck, descending on the map of his chest, kissing the pink hills, sucking them between his teeth, making the boy arch pleasantly. His hands traced his gentle body, caressing his tights, cupping salvation upon his right hand. Disheveled hair, perspiring, with laughing lips and drunk, with open shirt, Lazar sang a ghazal, a jug of wine in his mouth, playing it gently with his tongue. His fingers found his entrance, wet with oil, intimidating and entrancing and penetrated it slowly, so gently, caressing the pink roof, making him toss out in sweet agony. His nymph-like beloved with cypress-like form and tulip-like face gasped his name as he came, crying out breathlessly, sprawled divinely on the sheets.

His cock was hard and aching, desperately cold and lone, begging for the full moon and the spill of milk on boyish lips. He took the lovely form of the lily beneath him and turned him on his side, caressing his cheeks and placing a comforting kiss on his cheek. Lazar let his tongue graze at the young man’s hole, accommodating him and hardening him into arousal again, sometimes plunging in to hear him moan lewdly, his saliva will be the balm healing the scorch of the sword.

When the winter sky was conveniently sprinkled with wet droplets of stars, the man took him, sliding deliriously in the tight warmth of his lover. He stayed still for a moment, breathless and lost in the clouds of love, in the garden of beauty.Every man was a King in a veined temple.

He started moving, merciful for the boy whose beauty shamed the daughter of Abigail and innocence rivaled the Vestals. Whimpering and simpering, the boy hushed his name as the poet’s skin struck his, sound reverberating in the empty chambers. Lazar rushed tin the luxuriant, well-tended orchard, accelerating the movement of his hips, angling it to make his lover mewl as he touched himself.

They danced languidly under the moonlight, candles dying out and plunging the room in a low, faint glow. The echoes of passion filled the room, as the gates of heaven opened avidly for the poet. The dancer spilled again, with a high-pitched moan, as the man slowly withdrew from paradise, adorning his back with adoration’s diadem.

His cheeks were dripping in rivers of honey, cascading to the sheets, marring his skin possessively. Lazar drank it all, until he was satiated and full of his seeds, while his hands drew the shape of the boy on the bed, upper half bent to look at him. His eyes rested, heavy-lidded, on the man tasting himself with his tongue, the trail of his fingers on his ribs, the flicker of the candles on his pale face.

“Retreat from the battlefield, soldier. Bring me kisses, and shield me on your chest,” the young stag said.

“Anything for you Laurent.”


End file.
